First Oncologist Visit

I allowed myself approximately a day of shock and an hour or two of tears and unbridled fear before I forcibly pulled myself together (in true stoic nature) and moved into fight mode. I went back to work the next day and started notifying my closest colleagues, the ones who needed to know now: my boss, her boss, and his secretary (who would likely be saddled with at least some of my job duties if I went on medical leave). Thankfully they were supportive and encouraging (and shocked and saddened by the news). I reminded myself (and continue to remind myself) that this affects more than just me. And life and work go on even though I'm sick.

My next stop was the library, where I headed to the medical section and chose to confront my fears head-on, checking out four relevant books: the American Cancer Society's Complete Guide to Colorectal Cancer (which, based on my symptoms, I most likely had), Colon & Rectal Cancer: From Diagnosis to Treatment, Before and After Cancer Treatment, and Fighting Cancer with Knowledge and Hope. I started reading as soon as I got home from work, finding the information scary but the information-gathering process empowering. Facing my worst-case scenario fears, in this case, a colostomy and possibly the permanent loss of my health, was how I wanted to deal with my diagnosis. I could accept having cancer with a positive but realistic attitude while simultaneously fighting to regain my health. 

The toughest part, even harder than receiving and gradually accepting the diagnosis and learning the potential challenges in the journey ahead, was waiting. Over a week passed between learning I had cancer on July 23 and meeting my oncologist for the first time on August 1. For a type-A planner like me, that was an eternity. I needed to know the next step.

To my immense relief, my oncologist, a young woman approximately my age, was a good match for me. She immediately informed me, upon entering the room, shaking my hand, and introducing herself, that she would not "sugarcoat" my diagnosis. "Good," I responded. "I don't want you to." As my heart pounded, she thoroughly went over my PET scan results and delivered the devastating details: stage three rectal cancer that had spread to my lymph nodes. 

The tumor was too large to remove, so I would start with aggressive chemo every other week to shrink it to a more easily-extracted mass before surgery. My new doctor answered all of my questions and brought in a chemo nurse who handed me a packet of information about my upcoming treatment (FAQs and drug interaction warnings) and gave me a tour of the onsite infusion room, with comfortable recliners, TVs, snacks, and stacks of magazines, before I left. 

None of it was easy to hear, see, or believe, but I felt like I was as prepared as I could be because of my copious reading. I was frightened, of course, but I couldn't wait, despite my fear, to start chemotherapy. 

It was ironic to me when I thought of previous years of my life when I didn't really want to live. Now that my life was threatened, I wanted nothing more.

The Diagnosis

There's no preparation for hearing a doctor tell you the life-altering news that you have cancer. Especially when you're an otherwise healthy, fit 37-year-old who reluctantly went to the hospital for a CT scan, then a needle biopsy of swollen groin lymph nodes, although your anxiety typically tells you that every minor ailment is probably fatal. It's ironic to me that this one time I wasn't worried.

But when a woman from my doctor's office called me at work one morning in July and told me I needed to come in, preferably that afternoon, to hear my biopsy results, and encouraged me "to bring a supportive person," I knew my life was now divided: before and after that phone call. My heart palpitated, my mind raced, and partial shock set in. I breathed deeply and tried to stay calm, tear-free, and focused on work (I was at work, after all), knowing that hysteria would not help me. For the next few hours, I alternated between eagerness to end the suspense and dread of hearing the diagnosis. I sent my boyfriend, Mark, a message with the news that my biopsy results were in, and they weren't good. We both knew, without saying the actual word, that it could mean only one thing. When I left work, drove to my doctor's office, and walked into the examining room, it became real.

My doctor came in just a few minutes after I arrived, with an apparent sense of urgency, and gently delivered the news that my biopsy tested "positive for cancer," likely GI in nature. I was stunned, sure there had to be a mistake. Hadn't multiple rounds of recent blood work results been fine? Yes, she acknowledged, but "we weren't checking for cancer." She handed me a tissue, gave me a list of helpfully-scheduled appointments (a PET scan, an MRI, oncology), and encouraged me to cry and lean on friends and family for support. "You're so stoic," she told me, which was partly true. But mostly I was in shock. She hugged me goodbye, and I floated out of her office in a daze and on a mission. I had to keep moving...or who knows? Collapse into a hysterical heap? There was plenty of time for that later.

I drove to a nearby hospital for blood work to check my tumor markers (so much new lingo that would eventually become familiar), then on to a previously-scheduled appointment with a gastroenterologist. The process began about a month earlier when I saw a doctor for what I suspected were hemorrhoids (and oh, by the way, also this lump on the left side of my pelvic area), and she told me I would have to see a specialist if they didn't clear up on their own. They didn't, and I was miserable, having spent a small fortune on soothing creams, gels, and pads without relief. 

Now I walked into this new doctor's office and bluntly (as has become my nature) told him that I had just been diagnosed with cancer and would need to schedule a colonoscopy. The poor doctor and his assistant visibly reeled as if I'd struck them. I don't think I believed the shocking words even as I said them. But the doctor said he felt a tumor, proof despite my disbelief, when examining me, so it had to be real, right?

As if all that wasn't enough for one day, I still had a dental cleaning on my way home. (You know it has been a rough day when having tartar scraped off your teeth is not the worst thing you've endured.) When the hygienist asked if I'd had any recent changes to my medical history, I shared my diagnosis. Clearly caught off guard, she asked if I wanted to continue with the cleaning or reschedule. I just wanted, needed, to keep going.

And I did. After finally making it home from all those appointments, my boyfriend came over and we went out for dinner at a local restaurant. We kept the conversation light, and even laughed a bit as we ate, but there was a foreboding undercurrent. He knew, and I knew he knew, but we didn't address it until later, after dinner, after I called my mom and told her (she took the news calmly, but told me later she was "angry" and upset about my diagnosis).

I held it all together until that night when I laid awake and cried, telling Mark, who held me, that I was scared (he said he was, too). How would I handle all of this? What if I couldn't work? What if I lost my health insurance? Would I survive? So many new, viable fears had entered my mind and lodged there for a long, uncomfortable stay.

Cher-ing a Special Night

Going out with my mom is a rare event. Especially at night, overnight, in the big city (Buffalo). It takes a monumental, miraculous, once-in-a-lifetime kinda occurrence, like, oh, say, the legendary Cher coming to town, as she did last month, for what she swears, for real this time, is her final farewell tour.

The mother-daughter concert was months in the making. I purchased the tickets as soon as they went on sale in September for the April event. It was risky, I knew, spending an entire two-week paycheck on tenth-row floor seats with no guarantee that my mom, who has chronic health issues that often keep her housebound (or close to home), would be able to attend. I added a hotel room with two beds, figuring that in a worst-case circumstance, if she couldn't (or wouldn't) go, I might be out a concert ticket, which I could resell online, but not a hotel room. 

Getting great seats turned out to be the easy part. The tough part was not letting on that I had them until I surprised her for Christmas or her birthday a month later. The suspense was incessant. Despite, or perhaps because I'd spent a ridiculous amount of money, I was amped up for the concert, but I couldn't say anything even when my mom expressed excitement while reading about it in the local newspaper. (I might have even mentioned it once or twice to gauge her reaction.)

"I'd love to go," she said more than once. "But I couldn't..."

Oh, but you are, I thought (or hoped she would, anyway).

As the fall months slowly ticked by, I decided to prolong my agony by waiting until her January birthday to reveal the secret. When the day arrived, I folded the printed tickets into a greeting card and presented them to her after we'd eaten a celebratory lunch. She was shocked, as expected. Uncharacteristically speechless, as well. (Fortunately she was sitting down.) But she wasn't about to relinquish those tickets, insisting that she'd hold on to them (securing them in her all-purpose safe-keeping drawer), and I reluctantly agreed, equally hesitant to let them out of my sight.

The wait extended for another three months, during which my mom seemed more anxious than excited about seeing Cher. When I tried to make plans for Mother's Day, she insisted that she had "to get through this" first before committing to anything else. I understood, but I was also disappointed by her lack of enthusiasm and concerned that she'd back out in the weeks, days, and hours before showtime.

Finally the rainy Friday arrived. I had to work all day, but we agreed to meet at my place after work and drive to the hotel from there. I was keyed up with nervous excitement all day, then rushed home to shower, change my clothes, and finish packing for our overnight stay. I expected her to arrive several minutes early, and hoped I'd be showered and dressed before she did, but my anxiety increased with each passing minute as I feared that she'd call to cancel and I'd be flying solo.

Thankfully she didn't, and I didn't. She arrived 15 minutes later than planned, but we still had more than enough time to drive to the hotel and get a Lyft to the arena. But first, a practical consideration. A few miles from home, en route to the hotel, I casually asked my mom if she had the tickets. "Yeah," she answered, a bit too hesitantly for my liking. "I have mine," she continued. And mine?! I swerved to the side of the road and parked the car, opening the trunk to grab her purse, hearts palpitating while she slowly pulled out her ticket, which was securely attached to mine.

We returned to the road, panic slowly abating, and arrived at the hotel about 45 minutes later, checking in, settling our luggage in our room, and eating quickly in the dining room before we made final preparations and waited for our Lyft in the lobby with an elderly couple headed in the same direction. 

We arrived in a misty rain shortly after the KeyBank Center's doors opened at 7 PM, and waded through a mob into airport-like security, received wristbands for floor-seat access, and were shepherded by helpful ushers to our tenth-row seats. To my relief, the seats were great, with a clear seated view of the stage and a projection screen to our left, which my mom used when prolonged standing became challenging. The evening's entertainment kicked off with an exuberant reformed version of Chic with Nile Rodgers at the helm, playing dance favorites like "We Are Family," "Let's Dance," "Get Lucky," "Upside Down," "Good Times," and "Le Freak" for nearly an hour, a long set for an opening act, before the stage was vacated and reset for Cher.

By that time, the arena had filled, with only a few visible vacant seats behind us, as we collectively endured the long 45-minute wait between acts. After a false alarm or two, the projection screens broadcast a Cher career - music, movies, and television - retrospective that heightened intensity until the timeless legend finally descended to the stage, in true Cher fashion, in a giant oval birdcage and performed "Strong Enough" and "Woman's World" before launching into a lengthy account of her 40th birthday proceedings, first appearance on David Letterman, and being initially rejected for The Witches of Eastwick because she reportedly wasn't young and "sexy enough." 

Well-timed video clip montages, dance performances, and guitar solos allowed her costume-change breaks in between songs (with replica costumes) from every era of her career, including an "I Got You Babe" duet with Sonny (who appeared onscreen), "And the Beat Goes On," "Welcome to Burlesque" (a definite highlight), "The Shoop Shoop Song," "After All," "I Found Someone," "If I Could Turn Back Time" (in black leather jacket and butt-baring black sequined leotard, which she rocked), "Fernando," "Waterloo," "All or Nothing," and ending too soon with "Believe."

I enjoyed the show, of course, and honestly didn't care (for once) if she was singing live or lip-synching (she sounded fantastic either way) because the performance was so incredibly entertaining. I was worried about my mom from beginning to end, though, wondering if she was feeling all right, if she needed to use the bathroom, and if she would be able to climb the stairs to exit the arena. (Maybe the same way she worried about me the last time we were there, more than 20 years earlier, for Tom Collins' Tour of World and Olympic Figure Skating Champions.) It was a different experience, for sure: more rewarding because I shared it with her, but more stressful because, having removed her far from her comfort zone, I felt responsible for getting her back home safely and taking care of her along the way.

After the concert, we slowly shuffled up the stairs, moving among the throng, to wait on our Lyft. Getting to the arena was easy; getting picked up from the arena when surrounding streets were blocked by police was an adventure. It took 30 minutes on the phone with my driver (and several failed street-access attempts on his part) as we walked several unfamiliar blocks from the arena while I worried about our safety and my mom's walking ability. Finally, at midnight, utterly frozen and beyond exhausted, our Lyft driver reached us and safely delivered us back to our room where we thawed out and unwound. 

I apologized profusely for the detour and half-jokingly told her I wouldn't blame her if she never went out with me again. She took it in stride, but acknowledged that, though she was homesick, she would never have passed up the opportunity to see Cher. Who would?

Just Breathe

Breathing is the most basic and necessary life function, but carving out daily time for focused, guided, relaxed breathing is a goal that continues to elude me. And not for lack of trying. Morning meditation has been my New Year's resolution every year for several years. 

A year ago, a wise and gifted life coach advised me to meditate every morning and watch my life change as a result. Not only would I feel different, but people around me would respond to me differently. Since this woman has been on point with all of her other counsel, I took it seriously and vowed to make it happen. But a year later, it's still a work in progress (at best). 

Since I prefer guided meditation, I started by using short (five- to ten-minute) YouTube videos, then graduated to a downloaded app, Headspace, that offered a free introductory basics course available in five-minute (or more) sessions, using those in fits and starts. My pattern was successfully meditating two or three consecutive days a week, never on weekends (figuring I was relaxed without meditating), and then swiftly falling off for the rest of it. 

Those were the days when I couldn't (or didn't) find an extra five or ten minutes before work without running behind schedule. (Hard to believe now that I used to journal every morning before getting out of bed. Now it's more like whenever I can squeeze in 20 minutes of purging...) Ironic, maybe, because getting to work on time (allowing extra time in my commute for the inevitable pesky school buses, garbage trucks, and minivan moms) is a huge source of stress five mornings a week. Meditating would relax my mind and body, providing all-day therapeutic benefits, but at a cost of five or ten minutes every morning.

Mindworks.org

I enjoy the limited time I devote to meditating, even if my mind wanders and I struggle to tune out street traffic sounds and other distractions (one of the benefits of living alone is that I have many more peaceful, interruption-free mornings than someone who doesn't). As an anxious type-A person, I benefit just as much from copious amounts of downtime, when I don't have to rush somewhere or cross something off my to-do list, as I do from highly-productive work sessions. Purposefully slowing down, even for five minutes, is always a good idea when you're as high-strung as I am. 

And that's what's frustrating for me. I know it makes a positive difference, but it needs to outweigh the sacrifice of extra driving time, extra TV time, and extra breakfast time. I'm attempting to add one more thing to a schedule that already feels packed, but one that is beneficial, like exercising or brushing my teeth. It's a cycle, though. Feeling rushed and behind schedule increases my anxiety while meditating reduces and helps me more effectively manage it. 

So, what's the solution? Do I get up earlier (than 5:45 AM...yikes)? Leave later? Cut my TV time (probably the solution to most, if not all, of my time-management challenges)? Make it an afternoon or evening practice? Regardless, the first step is prioritizing it, then practicing it often enough to make it a habit. 

Saying I don't have time is a cop-out excuse for not improving myself. Anyone can say that about anything...and it becomes true (at least to you) if you don't make time. I will make time for meditation...this year...this week...maybe...hopefully...

The Elusive Chanteuse

I debated buying a ticket to see the legendary "Elusive Chanteuse" Mariah Carey live in concert with her Caution World Tour last weekend in Buffalo. 

It was within easy driving distance (no flight required) for me, and I easily got a fantastic second-row seat at a decent price (always an attendance factor), but on the other side, I'll admit I haven't really followed her music since the '90s when she switched from soaring pop ballads and bubbly bops to an edgier hip-hop R&B style, so it was my inner 10-year-old fan girl who sprang for the ticket, hoping for a taste of vintage Mariah, and crossed my fingers that she would show up on time (or heck, show up at all) and sound great (she hasn't had a great reputation lately for either).

I also hoped for driveable weather, which can be hard to come by in upstate New York in March, but I lucked out, garnering cool but sunny and snow-free weather on the day of the show. I booked a nearby hotel room regardless of weather for the night so I wouldn't have to drive home exhausted after the show and got a Lyft to and from the show.

I wasn't entirely sure of the scheduled start time. My ticket said 8:00 PM, but I also saw advertisements for a 7:30 PM start time, so I played it safe (as usual) and arrived at Shea's Performing Arts Center at 7:05, briefly waiting outside in a short line before walking in, scanning my ticket, and buying a bottle of water. As common sense would have told me, I needn't have rushed. I waited outside my seating section, flattening myself against the wall to avoid the crush of fellow patrons, some of whom were standing and waiting and some who were pushing through the crowd to buy refreshments and merchandise. 

Finally, after 30 minutes of waiting, the orchestra doors opened and I found my second-row unobstructed-view seat between two pairs of twenty-somethings. (The audience was an equal mixture of young and middle-aged music fans, a testament to the remarkable length of Mariah's career, starting with her hit 1990 debut album, and enduring popularity.)

But my waiting was far from over. At 8:00 PM, the scheduled start time, Mariah's apparent (unbilled) opening act DJ Suss One came onstage and hyped up the audience with high-energy dance tracks by departed music legends Michael Jackson, Prince, Whitney Houston, Rick James, and Aretha Franklin. It was fun at first, but after approximately 30 minutes of promising that Mariah was "just minutes away" from taking the stage, most of the audience had taken their seats, conserving the rest of their energy for her long-awaited appearance.

Thankfully it was worth the wait when she finally strolled onstage at nearly 9 PM in a slinky silver glittery Vegas number. She had the right mix of old and new music, including the familiar '90s hits I'd hoped for - "Dreamlover," "Emotions," "Anytime You Need a Friend," "Fantasy," "Always Be My Baby" (highlighted by photos and videos of her babies, Roc and Roe, who ran onstage at the end), "My All," "Love Takes Time" - and a few of the best from her new Caution album, including the title track, "A No No" and "GTFO." My favorite part of the show was the Glitter medley "Roller Disco" portion, punctuated with #justiceforglitter banners carried by her muscular backup dancers. 

She seemed to enjoy the performance and made it fun for the audience, expressing appreciation for her "lambs'" devotion, signing programs for some of the front-row patrons, changing her costume half a dozen times, and showcasing her signature vocal range, proving she still has it, at least on occasion.

The only criticism I can muster is that it ended too soon. She wasn't onstage longer than an hour. I stayed in my seat for awhile after she left the stage and the lights came on, thinking there must be more, an encore, a second half? Nope. After belting out "Hero," one of her signature numbers, Mariah, ever elusive, had left the building and I followed suit, returning to my hotel by 10:30 PM, slightly disappointed but thoroughly entertained.

Clean Slate

A new year doesn't always elicit enthusiasm.

I started 2018 feeling deeply unhappy and worn out. I was walloped by post-holiday blues, literally sick (with a weekend-long flu and cold after cold) throughout January, struggling through an endlessly snowy and bitterly cold winter, and subsequently unexcited about what the rest of the year might offer.

Along the way, during the one winter weekend in February when I made plans to see a live show in my nearest city, I was snowed in overnight (for the second time that brutal winter) at a hotel without a change of clothes and a toothbrush and comb. The moral of that story, I believed, was to simply stay home (or, don't make nonrefundable plans without an overnight bag).

My latest, potentially last-ditch attempt at dating had fizzled out completely and I'd reached a crossroads. I started the new year consulting psychics (I no longer trusted my own judgment) as I contemplated giving up (maybe forever) on dating or gearing up for another round. The two women I spoke with gave me different but not necessarily contradictory answers: one said I would meet the love of my life that spring; the second said I was emotionally blocked (which I knew to be true) and needed to let go of a long-dead past relationship before I could find love again.

Using their words as motivation, I stopped looking for someone else and started looking deeply within myself. As Dr. Amp advised on Twin Peaks: The Return, I needed to grab my golden shovel (only $29.99 + S&H!) and "shovel [my] way out of the shit."

I spent the second half of the year doing just that, prioritizing all aspects of my health, with surprising results. Rather than taking on a second job, as I'd previously done, I opted for a relaxing summer, devoting my free time to writing gut-wrenching, tear-stained autobiographical essays that reshaped how I perceived that aforementioned unhealthy past relationship and brought me the cathartic closure I didn't know I needed. I also committed to eating less (after several months of consistent overeating) and becoming more active, buying a fitness tracker, losing 12 pounds, and gaining improved self-confidence by fall. To quote life coach Iyanla Vanzant's mantra, "I did my work" and was rewarded by the results.

Then that fall, when I wasn't looking and wasn't interested, a coworker introduced me to her ex, claiming we were perfect for each other. Um, yeah, no...But to my unceasing amazement, in an offbeat way, we kind of are. Fortunately, he was more willing to reach out, and I reluctantly responded to his message, then to his invitation to meet in person, and all subsequent messages and meetings. I stopped saying "never again" and approached dating with a "maybe this time" mindset.

I opened my mind and eventually my heart to an unlikely outcome and realized that all the planning, wishing, and psychic readings in the world can't determine matters of the heart. Those things only happen when you're ready for them, not when you want them. Working on myself made me attract the person I (didn't know I) wanted, and letting go of what I thought I wanted brought me what I needed. Life is ironic that way.

I started 2019 feeling happy, healthy, and unfailingly grateful for everything, including 2018's painful but valuable lessons. The second psychic I consulted last year told me nothing good would come from holding on to the past and I had to let go and hurt to heal, which unknowingly became my motivation to change and set the rest of the year's events in motion.

Although I don't know what this year holds for me (and I haven't sought psychic guidance for a supernatural glimpse), I'm at peace with uncertainty. It feels like a fresh start, the fruit of last year's hard labor.